


Oathkeeper

by Vespairty



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Direct Blood Connections of dragons, M/M, Onesided Relationships - Freeform, Powerful Dragongborn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2018-08-23 10:35:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8324560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vespairty/pseuds/Vespairty
Summary: Laeriyel was bound by his oath to bring his honor to Jorrvaskar. He left the Dominion and ended up poisoned in Skyrim. Tangled up in the Stormcloaks was not his idea of rebelling and he most certainly wasn't aware that so far from home it could be found. Now his oath has extended to saving all Skyrim from the Dragon Alduin while finding himself among the lands of Skyrim.





	1. It all started in Helgen

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Skyrim or any rights to it and make no money from this fiction because of that.
> 
> Updates will be posted to the following Tumblr: Vespairty

#  Chapter One: It started in Helgen 

His mind was a haze, murky like when too much magic left the system to quickly. There was a subtle ache that squirmed beneath his skin. Deep, bone deep, digging tiny claws into the marrow and nesting there. His joints burned from it, pulsed with tainted blood, bloated by the fever and marrow deep ache. 

Every shift from the roving carriage jarred him and made all surface together in a fog of murk, and ache, and poison pulsing. The swaying jumbled all of it this way and that. Mixing it all the more into a heavy pressure at the forefront of his thoughts. It felt as if all was encased in water, ebbing and flowing in waves of mind numbing intensity, swishing and thumping along his inner walls. He would have heaved if he had anything left in him to give.

He couldn’t quite remember when the fever had struck him, who had poisoned him, or how long he had been traveling with it eating away at his insides. It raging against his will to continue on. All he could recall was the need to run, as far as one could, to any reach of terra firma that he could find beyond the Dominion. A daunting if near impossible feat, for the fingers of the Aldmeri spread wide, and long, and bloody, and he could only go so far so fast. Especially plagued as he was with fever..

It had been a wash of all consuming desperation to escape. Betrayal driving him far. His days and nights a blur of ever rising anxiety to the point of near hysteria. Scenery of different landscapes, hovels, and cold damp hiding spots. Yet despite all of his efforts and force of will, somewhere along the way, he lost himself. Lost and succumbed. 

He fell under that all consuming numbness and drugged pressure. Heated and raving mad, stumbling blindly, half gone, through murk and wood alike without direction. He lost hours or days or weeks, but he couldn’t attest to it if asked the length of any time for it was all distorted and fractured. Memory was a ragged thing now, edges of a broken mirror showing small snatches of recollections. He had not the focus to sort it. 

Some scenes made sense but others were hallucinations of beasts with voices as thunderous as storms. Wide wings and taunting, almost eager eyes, speaking in a tongue he knew well and amused at the way he spoke back. They were world shattering and in their comings and goings old names came to and from them. 

Each broken piece of memory would come to the fore but faded soon after under the Influence of blight within, forgotten or buried it did not matter now. It all seemed endless and mad, and his state of distress only increased with each passing hour. 

It was starved and sick and madly mumbling of nothings that he was found by a being of pure fire. Well he more ran into it, solid and massive. It hissed and spit at first but he had no will to fight it and darkness took him as its arms encircled him. In his momentary waking hours following he could hear bits and pieces of garbled conversations. His visions blurred with ragged faces raced through his addled mind. 

When they spoke he felt he should know the words. Like he had learned them long ago but for what he couldn’t grasp rightly. It was a dialect he knew. Familiar but maybe on the other side of a battlefield. Through the fog of his mind came scenes unbidden, a flash of a bear, the smell of spiced honey and winter. Knew that smell, but it was missing something to it… A flash of silver gleaming behind eyes of bright fury. Wild dark hair singed by the electricity of the elven blade called Siealdyrn. Wild laughing, clashing of steel and will. The smell of hound, and honey spiced, and winter. Nord, Jergen. Beloved.

Nordic this smell, an old enemy, but he could not will himself to feel enough to resist. He could not fight them, allowed them to strip him, lay him bare, and wrap him in the musk of furs though he was so unbearably hot. He mumbled words in elvish, some in nordic, some were whispered conversations with the reptilian winged beasts of old says.

He spoke of escaping the Dominion, half intelligible. He told them through shaking fever-dreams of a man of silver eyes, wild hair, wolf armor, and a giant war axe. Named some forgotten name that rolled off the tongue in thick elven. Told of the Oath. Told of the glory in that battle.

He was sure that in his delusion he had begged a man, Big and Broad and Sturdy, to take the oath from him and deliver it to the children of that nord, so sure he wouldn’t survive this. Knowing if he was to die he needed to find a way to complete his promise. He could not bare it to break this thing. He needed closure from the ghosts of those wars and battles. Could not rest beyond in Aetherius until this thing was done.

He clawed at Big-broad-sturdy in all that he was to do this, take this thing from him, for if fever take him and he could never fulfill his promise, he would become haunted. He would be left a wisp unable to leave the plains of this existence. Forever and unto the end of all he would be Oathbreaker then, worst of all fates. Stuck between life and death never resting, never finding home again, lost. Lost, lost, lost. 

Maybe it was the sheer sincerity in his frenzy, for the man eased him with soothing words that he could not recall now. Knew them as only the shouting of the fever beast from his terrors. His grasping hands were gently pried away even as he pleaded, babbled, for the man to bear his burden should he fail. Hands much too big around his shoulders laid him back to rest. Even still, he pleaded into the wee hours of morning. Half mad, mostly dead, wholly tormented. For all he could see was moonlit eyes and wild black hair and red, so much red. Despite steely blue staring down at him in, pity? 

_“H...Hey listen, since I am dying you have to listen. Isn’t that some rule you fancy elves have? Last words or something like that… Well I have a request, take this amulet from me and if ever you make it to Skyrim… Tell my children I… Tell them I love them, never meant to run off, never meant to die like some slaughtered beast… Tell them to go well, live well, love well, like I never did. Do this if you can elf, no sayings as to why but I just...You’ll do it. Don’t know how I know that but… I…”_

_“My word is my bond, I accept your task and words. Solemnly will I carry them until such a time as it is done. Rest my friend for I will honor you in your death and recall you in your life Silver Eyes.”_

_“Ha!...ow… Jergen, my name not some frilly thing like a title. You really are something like some prince in those storybooks ma read late at night. Never met an elf like you, good fight yeah? Might have even… liked you once… When you get to Whiterun, find Kodlak… Talos… guide… you…”_

“Talos guide you…Jergen said… he wanted. Promised to honor him. Please...” Get to the kin in a place called Whiterun for they needed to know that they were loved and not left. Tell them of the man’s might in their fated battle. How he laughed in the face of death and even unto his enemy, blessed him. They needed to know… Moon eyes, wild hair, victory in death. He could not end without that man’s memory avenged. Rival, Battle-lust companion, Beloved. 

He must have insisted a hundred fold before those deep eyes hardened into resolve. He recalled the mouth opening, voice unleashing, washing over him with a magic from his words alone. It lulled the hysteria into his personal abyss and soothed him deep into slumber. Fever beast singing in a space where the pain of fever and ache faded into a numbed chilling swamp. The red was gone here, the silver gone, all of it gone. 

He never felt such a sleep before. Being pushed so deep down into the mess of himself that nothing could touch him. He was half afraid he’d never wake again yet half relieved that at least now he couldn’t be bound by his words. Hounded by an Oath not yet honored. Here there was nothing save for himself and peace but too soon he was pulled from his place. Minutes or days, but he was surfacing again to the crescendo of his blood in his own ears, cotton in his mouth, and weariness in every fiber of his being. 

His brain was heavy, his mind was laced with the tendrils of fatigue and half formed anythings. A Web of incoherence. Too much poison riddled the way he felt and perceived all. The fever raging low enough now to leave him drained. Sounds were distant echoes in his ears so loud was his blood. His senses were dampened and vulnerable but even through all that instinct told him that somehow something had gone terribly wrong. 

This was the first time in what seemed a terribly long while that he could make out actual words beyond the dampened hearing. He was surfacing into consciousness even as the remnants of fever ate at edges of his being. Soft gray light of day pierced him through leaving a sharpness in his temple. He came forth with it into true awareness, head pulsing, mind reeling. Awake but left to the weakness of fleeting sick. 

A groan tore itself from deep within as he tried to lift his head even a moment. The effort too much for him as it was just too heavy. He tried to move his hands but found them held tight and raw from coarse rope. He tried to get his bearings but the world swam before him making him nauseous. Tried and tried but to little avail. 

A body edged into his own enough that he swayed before leaning upon it. A rumble like thunder wound its way into him, recalled a command in a lullaby already forgotten. He eased back into unconsciousness. Into that deep place again where reality ceased to be. This time though there was a fever beast before him, black and large and terrible in its presence. It looked upon him with a mix of disgust and fascination. Its eyes were red, deeper than voids, but eventually it turned from him and faded into the nothingness.

When next he opened his eyes he could stand a little more light and the throbbing in his head had diminished significantly. His eyesight had improved to its usual sharpness allowing him to take in the passing scenery though, dots danced in time to his own heartbeat around the edges. His head lifted easier but his chest was tight with a soreness that ran lung deep. His throat burned and his mouth felt layered in cloth. They must have fed him a drought for he could taste it on his tongue. 

Whatever the case, he could think coherently again but when he tried to recall the past days, or was it weeks?, He failed to come up with anything other than the feeling of ancient words invading within him. Lulling him far into the arms of Aetherius but not enough to never return. He was also missing something else. Energy that was usually rampant within was suddenly silent, or rather stagnant. His blood slugglish.

 _A magic poison. No wonder I haven’t broken through my sickness faster._ The thought brought his mind into a sharper clarity and wearily he tested the bonds. They were well done with strong rope and while he could have escaped easily when he was well, he was not even fit to try as he was now. He winced at the burning of his wrists. Whoever had done this was not kind, probably expecting an escape or just bitter. 

His shuffling must have caught the attention of someone because a voice pulled him from his dilemma. His gaze snapped onto the man and each took in the other. The man was an ilk that he was familiar with. A nord if ever there was one fair in skin and hair alike, sitting broad shouldered with muscles like boulders. All of him chiseled to heft axes bigger than he. A sturdy representation of man with gruff scrapings of blond hair upon his jaw. Handsome.

A nord if ever there was one. Jergen was like that too. Internally he winced at the remembrance of his final battle on the side of the Aldmeri and also for how he must look now. Most likely sickly pale, drawn tight, and greasy from lack of bath. His long hair felt sticky upon his own neck and his lips felt chapped and dry. For an elf of the Altimer, he was a disgrace right now. The only consolation to be had was that they were both of them, bound and obviously being escorted elsewhere by others. So allies of a sort. Alive.

“I see you are awake,” The friendliness in that tone sunk deep into him and he could only stare blankly when the nord, Ralof he later learned, laughed lightly and oh so sweetly at his stoic surprise. He wondered if the heat of lingering fever was what commanded him in that moment to lean eagerly toward the sound. It was just so endearing and he knew in that moment what sort of man was before him. A man of loyalty and jovial pursuits, a kind and honest man. Someone so very bright in a world shaded with enemies everywhere. For an instant he knew Ralof then. Loved him fully.

Ralof didn’t seem to mind that he didn’t respond beyond mild acknowledgment. He just chattered of this and that, to the thief from a place called Rorikstead he spoke of Ulfric Stormcloak and the gods. He spoke of Sovngarde and what would come of them. Death. The final thoughts of home and all of it sounded beautiful. Perhaps had Ralof not been thrust into battle for the rebellion, he could have been a bard. He was social and bright and the way he spoke pulled one into a story. 

He learned that he must have been found by the Stormcloaks, delusional and feverish, yet had been spared but stripped of all things save an amulet that he felt hot upon his chest. They must have at some point been ambushed by the imperial soldiers of the Empire, though he knew too little of the politics behind the struggle. He hadn’t been much aware of any struggle between the human factions only the Aldmeri wars with them. Low and behold there was a civil war here in Skyrim. Fate was a brutal mistress.

He was pleased at least to know now what had transpired to some degree but it did not settle the pit of his stomach. If Ulfric Stormcloak was an enemy of the Empire and a dissident of the White Gold Concordat it could only spell disaster, especially if he was leading an uprising which he was. As he was now he could not escape this. For all his years on the battlefield and training in magic, he was useless under this influence of both residual fever and magic poison that stacked upon it. 

It seemed that their captors didn’t care for excuses if the Horse Thief was any indication. Dressed in rags as he was, looking as he did, they would not believe him should be say who he was and whence he came and why. To them he was just like any other found with these rebels. To them he was little more than a head to the executioners wall. No words could convince them to see beyond what he was now and more still to prove he was worth more alive than dead. The Dominion had sent a poisonous farewell and he was not one to forget that he had left them. That life was long buried now on the fields far north. He doubted the Dominion much cared to aid him now.

Every so often a guard driving the caravan would shout at them to be silent which Ralof would respond to with his giant mouth and much too giant sense of pride. It was humorous and it alleviated the tension however briefly but it was not what would aid them either. So they journeyed further into cold pines and mountains that scratched the high heavens. Every so often dizziness would overtake him and he would find himself gathered to the shoulder of he man beside him, Ulfric Stormcloak. Each time he would feel a slight swell of gratitude and whisper it gently. He got a grunt in response every time but somehow he felt the man was pleased.

As it was they soon came upon Helgen as the sun began to ascend on that day. Tense and cold and intimidating, its bastions towered over the small stone hovels. Its shadow loomed over the inhabitants casting chill in its entirety. The voices of man drifted far up the hill they descended being tossed to and fro as the cart continued its way toward the looming gates. Wooden and heavy, braced with steel rods and beams to support the weight of it.

He had always heard that Nords built for war with stone and more stone and Helgen could attest to it with sturdy mountain rock. The feel of the air was cold and the smell of the village was filled with both decay and life. The smells of oil torches and baking breads, livestock and burnt metal, the various confusing scents of clay and dirt. The colors were less vivid but the noise of shouting and clamoring of armor bright enough to cut into the senses and dig up in him the pain of sickness.

It was too much for him and he groaned as the nausea built up within him happy to know he had nothing left to lose. He felt a shoulder upon his own and he eagerly leaned upon it. Heat passed between him and the man beside him, gagged and bound unlike the rest of them. Ulfric Stormcloak if he could recall right, had the power of something called the Thu-um. A magic that came from words of power, or so he had read once long ago.

Ulfric was a dissident, the dissident if one wanted to be correct about it. Somehow it was fitting that a nord such as this would attempt to overthrow the Aldmeri hold on Skyrim. The man was stubborn, steady. He doubted there was a way to break such a will as this. He was grateful though for the stability and subtly reached out a finger to touch the man’s weather worn hand. He was a kind man, despite his reputation. He got only a grunt in response and a twitch in the man’s fingers. 

It was like this that he missed the Thalmor’s and General Tulius speaking a ways away though Ralof had something to say like with anything. Perhaps that was for the best because it seemed they did not notice him with Ulfric and Ralof as shields from their visions. He doubted it would be a good thing if they did. Considering the dosage of poison he was afflicted with, the Dominion was not pleased and if found alive well… There were always worse fates than death. 

As the carts pulled into what must be a town square he recalled Ralof speaking of home being what one should envision before death. For him however, home could never be again. For him home was dead now. It had been in the image of a broad shouldered man made of muscles to heft axes bigger than he, wild silver eyes and hair black as pitch. He supposed it was as good a last memory as anything. Even if home had fled with it.

He was broken out of his daze by the firm hounding of imperials and realized the carts had stopped. They ordered all of them out yet he lacked the strength to stand alone, though stand he could with aid. He tried to tell them but rough hands gripped him without mercy and shoved him to the dirt. Pain from sickness and nausea from movement proved overwhelming and he dry heaved into the dust before him. His ears rung and in it he heard Ralof cursing at the guards.

The soldiers beside him sneered and one even spat at him. Anger should have prevailed then but he was just so very tired now and he wasn’t the fool he once was. He would get them back for it. This should be the end but in his mind he remembered that thing in the deep place, Void being of red eyes, and his instinct told him this wasn’t the end of this. In case it was he only hoped that he could convince one of those soldiers to gift the amulet to the Kin of Jergen. If that was done then perhaps the long sleep of death wouldn’t be so daunting. Still he doubted he would die here.

“Imperials and their damned lists,” Ralof growled beside him yet his eyes were upon him again. They were soft on him, filled with the want to aid him but he only minutely shook his head at the man in response. 

“Do not be foolish Ralof.” He pulled himself to sitting unable to move much. The imperials didn’t seem to wish to bother with him in any case now that they got it out of their systems. When the leader of this set of imperials came to the fore, he was reminded of a testy cat. She was mannish, and seemed to be as foul as her face. As expected the imperial in charge barked at them like dogs as the names began to be read off. 

His ears were ringing and he feared he’d miss his own so he watched instead. His long hair fell in the way but he could see enough to read what was happening. His vision pulsed every now and again as he felt the fever resurfacing slowly as the names continued. The Horse Thief, Lokir, was called but ran and in the end died without even a chance.

“Ralof of Riverwood,” At this he snapped his gaze to the man beside him a feeling of despair beginning to spread in his chest. The nord however only scoffed and moved on and something in him wailed as an image of silver eyes flashed briefly before him. _Please, let me not see this again. Please let me at least go first!_

There was little time to pray however when a set of boots stole his attention and he was faced with a kneeling imperial man. There were murmurs among the surrounding soldiers and the eyes he met were filled with… concern? He wondered how he looked right now, shivering from lingering fever, weak, dirtied. He was not expecting the kindness and he could feel his face contort in confusion. 

“-d You are?” The words didn’t all make sense at first. His fevered mind still trying hard to work and running low on energy to do so after so long a day. He wondered if this would make it back to the Summerset Isles. That his demise was not at the hand of a Justicar, or at a trial, but in the mud of Skyrim fevered and weak enough to be killed by a human. How disgraceful, it would be perfect no? For the Aldmeri Dominion to see a war hero felled like this… It would make them rife with fury. 

“Laeriyel Vassent, an Altimer from the Dominion.” For a moment the beings that hounded at him stalled and went pale. They glanced to him and finally took stock of his skin, a palest of golds almost fair like a nord. Had they thought him Bosmer? Halfbred? Was that why they had handled him so roughly? The man before him however winced and his brows furrowed. He stood again and faced his commander. 

“What of this one? He’s not on the list…” The woman commander sneered and perhaps her eyes held vindication, an old grudge against the Dominion and this… well this was a slight victory for her. Laer knew her kind, knew that she would take pleasure in his demise. Petty.

“He’s with them, he goes to the block.” The hounds were pleased but the man before him was not. Dark brows furrowed in a wince, knowing the injustice done and unable to stop it. His dark gaze spoke of regret and the one could only offer a slight smile of bitterness. This was a good man forced to do bad things. War did that to men.

“You heard her. Your remains will be returned to the summerset isles, for what it is worth I am sorr--”

“You needn’t bother but if I could have one request it would be you take the amulet I wear and see it to the Kin of a man named Jergen in Whiterun. I made a promise to see it to his children and while I would have wished to do it myself, at least this way my oath will not be broken. He asked me to tell them that he was ‘Sorry that he died like some slaughtered beast. To live well, love well, like he never did.’ He said that I should see a man named Kodlak.” 

His own voice sounded much too soft, hoarse, so far from who he once was under the Aldmeri. Yet the order was clear and if this man was even a little honorable, he would abide this wish. The guards about him jeered at him that elves don’t become companions, whatever that meant, but the man before him silenced them. With care he had not expected, the imperial reached around his neck and removed a chain of steel and a hanging pendant. It was an axe relief with a jewel encased in the hilt. A small thing but worth so much to that man. 

“For what it is worth Laeriyel, I am sorry.” Would that he could spare him a bitter remark but he was roughly pulled to his feet and dragged to the line of nords where one was already shoved to the side without full rights onto death. Fury burbled deep in him that they would allow such a blasphemy to occur. Denying the dying rights to Aetherius! It seemed others shared his sentiment including the man now clutching tightly the amulet. Visage pale and grim, a good man. 

Silently, he continued the mantra to them. His words too soft to disturb and he felt Ralof and the guards holding him bore their gazes upon him as he read the rights himself for them. Hands bruising loosened, eyes judging softened. Ralof clenched his teeth and looked down. Probably thinking of home. Dreaming of Sovengard. 

“Next, the Elf!” The guards escorted him forward. He heard Ralof’s voice shout in fury when he was placed before the Legate before the headman’s block. The head of the previous execution stared vacantly skyward in the basket and the stone red with the wet of his blood. Were his ancestors smiling down upon him? Was his mother proud of him where she rested in the beyond? Somehow he thought they were. 

He had little time to think of it for the Legate spared him no mercy. She kicked him down onto the hay. The scent of blood, piss, and feces overtook him. His head swam with visions of red and the heat of a swift return to fever. His head was pushed into the stone by a boot and slick red coated his cheek and soaked into his hair. The smell of iron and wet stone, still warm from a man's stilled heart.

He thought he heard the commander jeer that this is what he deserved and maybe, he agreed with her but not here, not like this. No one person deserved this maltreatment. Silver eyes floated before him, haunting him now more than ever. The headman grunted, hefting the giant beast of an axe up. Before it could drop the ground trembled and a voice shouted from far off. Words broke the sky and he knew this was what he had been waiting for. The reason this was not over.

 _”I come!”_ It called and the people about floundered. Again the headsman went to raise his axe but again that voice called out, louder and then beyond that black mask there poised a king of beasts. The tower high held aloft a monstrous form of black glistening scales, its stones cracked under talons sharpened and longer that a man’s arm. It gazed upon them, eyes more intelligent than some simple beast, glowing crimson like fires of old. Voids in the depths.

When it opened its maw, the world was bathed in the call of its roar, its furious words of despair. Words that wove deep into him as he was pushed away from the block by the force of great wings. For a second time that day he knew someone and this time it was this beast. In his mind a name spelled itself in long lost letters that he knew and yet didn’t. 

Alduin. World Eater.

He struggled to breath again, his breaths filled with the scent of power and crackling embers. This thing so very ancient beckoning to him. His soul reaching for it and it his. About him the town flew into chaos under that power, the words, the fire, the ash, and he alone… felt sane and steady. For the first time he was filled with purpose again, fire and primal energy, he was alive again! Heat poured above him, and he rolled away from the incoming words. Using momentum he sprung up from the earth and quickly evaded another torrent of that wondrous voice. 

Hands gripped him and pulled him from the fray, and his eyes found the familiar face of Ralof, pale and drawn and relieved. Eyes blue and beautiful but dull compared to that beast. They didn’t wait but ran through the opening into the nearest tower door. The heavy words were cut off as it was slammed shut and the din from outside ended and he came back to himself. 

Within were the remaining followers of Ulfric and the man himself staring upon them. When their eyes met there was relief, and Laer longed to stand beside that man for the comfort and strength he knew would come from it. Their reprieve was short lived as their tower shook. The dragon was above them and breaking through the stone. If they stayed here they would be toasted alive. 

From there on everything was a blur of motion and a game of tag with the beast that his mind told him was Alduin. His heart raced and the fire in his soul became an inferno fueled by sickness in his blood. Adrenaline pulled him forward and guided him through the annihilation of Helgen and her mountain stone walls. It pulled him passed the charred bodies and onward, still tied, with Ralof at his side. 

The dragon, Alduin, swooped to and fro releasing calls of power. Exhilaration flooded him and he raised his laughter high, imagining that power in his voice too! Wanting to echo that power flying ever over. He wanted to fight it, drown in it, devour it, love it. Battle lust he knew so very well and he wanted it again. Needing the reason to drive out the ages of remorse and wells of blood that soaked his soul. To drive away the haunting visage of his dead home.

He and Ralof fought their way out of Helgen, stood against the world, and when the dusk hit they fell, grateful and bursting with life out into the soft grass beyond Helgen’s burning corpse. Laer felt every minute fall back upon him then. He felt the bone deep exhaustion sink into him as he curled upon the snow drifted earth.

His fever had returned to pull at him but his body felt stronger than it had in a long while. His magic was returning it. The thick presence returning to him and filling the strange emptiness in his veins. It was with a gentle whooping cheer that he met his companion’s eyes, reminded they were both alive and well. 

“You are one crazy elf you know that?! Laughing at a dragon! Gutting a bear with a dagger only?! Don’t think I didn’t also see what you did to those Imperial torturers in the dungeons! You are crazy… Remind me to remind you to join the Stormcloaks. Fucking crazy, scary, elf.” Those eyes were twinkling something fierce and that smile was perfect in that moment. He was in love yet again, so full was his heart.

“I am crazy?! We are fleeing for our lives from a dragon and you stop to fight with that Hadvar man! If I didn’t already think so I would say you were thick my friend! Remind me to remind you to take a moment and think before starting a word fight in a sword battle!” He wasn’t sure what prompted him to do it but he softly touched that face before him, making sure it was real. He felt Ralof give in and they both started to laugh, wondering each how they managed to survive this. 

That night they slept close as if was bitterly cold despite the heat still wafting from the remains of what once was Helgen. The elf tucked soundly into the form of his companion, ear to his heart. The following morning Laeriyel found himself staring up into the most beautiful dawn he had ever seen. He nearly brought himself to madness in its study. He had always heard stories of the northern skies being made of magic and light. He had never thought any truth to it but the air of that morning was alight with it. Fire in the early cracklings of dawn. 

“Fevered still friend?” Gods how good it sounded to hear a voice like this caked in sleep. To know it lived.

“Yes but it will fade soon, the poison was not enough to kill me and my magic is restoring me now. Is… Is it always like this.” He waved a blood and dirt encrusted hand to the horizon.

“Is it always so… This?! There are no words to give this justice! Is this how Skyrim looks every breaking dawn?!” Maybe Ralof understood for suddenly that body was beside him in a camaraderie that could only come from surviving a dragon with someone and then living to a dawn like this. Their shoulders pressed tight together.

“Not always but, maybe the divines were kind today. If you go further north you’ll see a sky that will bring even a nord to tears. So, Laeryiel, What now?” It was a valid question. What would he do now. He had no amulet to return and he wasn’t sure Hadvar even survived. Still, he made a promise. With or without the amulet he would go to Whiterun, he would find this Kodlak, and he would tell those children what Jergen had wished to say.

“I must go to Whiterun… I have no amulet to return now but that does not lift me from my oath.” His eyes met Ralof’s briefly and they studied one another. Blue on summer green. Accessing their newfound friendship. Deeming it well earned.

“Riverwood is not far from here and lies inbetween here and Whiterun. My sister, Gerdur, runs the mill there with her husband Hodd. I need to warn them of the dragon, and to see them… To let them know I am safe. Come with me! Rest and then head to Whiterun and maybe after… Maybe then you could consider meeting me for a drink in Windhelm. I’ll convince you to put that crazy to the good of Skyrim yet!” 

Laeriyel found himself agreeing but only after convincing Ralof that they bathe first. He was done with being caked in the blood of dead men.

0o0

## Thalmor Embassy of Skyrim a week after Helgen

The sword shimmered and then crackled menacingly upon the table. It had a name Siealdryn. It also had a past, it belonged to an elf with notoriety, One that had been missing for months. Rumariyn had come from the council following the trail of his long time rival, Laeriyel Vassent. The owner of this sword. A sword taken from the Stormcloacks who were escorted to Helgen. Helgen which had been decimated by a dragon, and moreover the one named on a list of prisoners which laid before him. 

Laeriyel Vassent, Altimer. To be executed like a common dog! He had been furious to say the least. The general before him was looking harassed and after threat of another war with the empire the man had gathered every survivor of Helgen to this one place that they could find. Before him stood twenty men and women, all imperials and half looking guilty. 

“Laeriyel Vassent... Laeriyel. Vassent. Do you have any idea just who it was you were ordering executed without the Aldmeri consent?! No? Let me tell you. Vassent single handedly handed the Dominon the last war. He is a High Champion. He is a member of our army and moreover he is worth more than a small alliance with Skyrim. You were going to kill him… He could be dead now in the mud of Helgen. Like a common DOG!” The faces before them were drawing paler, the general Tullius was looking red. He had been in Helgen, he should have been told or notified but he had not been and all eyes fell to the Legate. 

“I have read from a detailed report about the mistreatment of the prisoners brought to Helgen. While I do not condone Talos worship and while traitors are to be treated with malignancy I was not aware that stripping the dead of their last rights was allowed. Even dogs deserve that much. To think Laeriyel to be sent off withou---”

“The rights were read… Sir.” Eyes of twenty plus men fell on a private Hadvar. To his credit the man did not flinch, but he felt smaller then. 

“The elf, Laeriyel, read the rights sir. When the Legate denied them after an outburst from an executed prisoner he read them. He also escaped Helgen sir of this I am certain. Permission to continue?” The Thalmor agent wasted no time in crossing the distance to tower before him now, menacing in black high collared cloaks. Dangerous and aged. 

“Proceed.”

“While evacuating ourselves in the attack I ran across Laeriyel and one Ralof of Riverwood. Earlier I had been given a request from the elf. So when I saw him again I tried to hand this amulet back to him. He told me he was bound by an oath and that if he should die his only request was that this be brought to the leader of the companions in Whiterun with a message from a deceased man named Jergen. 

I saw him and Ralof escape into Helgen Keep and later when I passed through Riverwood to see my own family before coming to this summons I overheard Gerdur speaking to her husband. It was About Ralof heading back to Windhelm and how his elven friend had done them a great service by speaking with the Jarl in Whiterun. I had thought there were more guards than usual but I had not suspected that it was because the Jarl knew of Helgen already. To be honest I had not expected him to survive, he was… extremely ill in Helgen.”

Relief flooded his system, Laeriyel was alive and against reports from Cerimer he had not abandoned the Dominion. He was bound by oath as he had written to the council several times for leave. Cerimer had told them the letters were forged by dissidents, but now… he had proof. If this was so then... He wondered.

“Ill?” Golden eyes raised to bore into this soldier. Ill, Laeriyel was not the type to get ill… unles--

“Poisoned sir. He was recovering with the Stormcloaks when we ambushed them but he was so far gone in fever we had thought he would die. Ulfric stopped fighting us when we took him into our custody. He was recovering and was able to stand and run when Helgen was attacked but he was half fevered when we had met again.” 

The thalmor turned from Hadvar then, his eyes scanning the massive reports spread before him. Cerimer had been pushing for Laeriyel’s removal for a long while. There could only be one in that honored position and Cerimer wished his son within it. Many of the council agreed that Cerimer was plotting to do something drastic but to go so far as to murder one of their greatest warriors. The only consolation was that Laeriyel survived Helgen while poisoned… he would survive. Now he just needed to be found and returned home. 

“You should excuse your Legate General. Turn her over for insubordination to the Dominion and I shall see about pardoning the rest. Hadvar was it? I would like a full report from you on your experience of Helgen. I want all details on Laeriyel recorded in them, down to his every twitch. Also, I hear you were the only one who questioned the methods of your Legate. Good work on being the model of the empire. You are lucky to have him Tullius. He is your only saving grace. Keep your eyes open for Laeriyel Vassent and report to the Thalmor Embassy on his location once you find him. We wish to bring him home as soon as possible and in one peace. And you... Hadvar was it? Get that amulet to the proper hands. An oath to an Altimer such as Laeriyel is worth more than the soul.” 

Laeriyel Vassent was alive… Why did that make him feel such relief?


	2. To Whiterun a Stranger Came

##  _Chapter 2: To Whiterun a Stranger Came_

The way forward was stretched before him over top the sloping hills and greatwood pines. Farther down from Helgen the road had become verdant and far more alive than what he could recall seeing of the harsher lands called Skyrim. Strange flowers brushed against his newly acquired boots, rightfully made and better still than the tatters he had endured up to this point. 

A decent bath had washed from him the blood of other men. It took from his the wretched ash and grime that had tenaciously clung to the very recesses of his person. Blackened locks faded to moonlit silver, long and soft as opposed to the fevered mess that had pulled upon his scalp. What fever and capture had wrought had all fallen away at the behest of warmed water and hard oil soap. 

He felt like a man again, alive and unfettered by the horrors of the days past. He felt the days as if a dream far and farther still away. It brought him a sort of calm but more than that he felt renewal in his being. His strength was restored him as far as a night could give, far too much energy to do him good. 

Restlessness had dug itself deep over the eve, the need to act, to explore, to run wild as he had not been able too since childhood gave way to adulthood. The dawn had brought with it a bright new world with boundless opportunities. The heavy years under the Aldmeri seemed so far now and his future so bright. 

He wished to live. He wondered when he had forgotten how, steeped as he was in the souls of mortal men. What war hath taken from him. It took a dragon, and rebellious nord men to make him see what he had become. What he wanted to be now. Not for the first time did he wonder what exact threads fate was weaving for him this time. 

As he stood facing the north of Riverwood, he pondered the will of the divines. His mind traveled far afield to attempt to comprehend the paths before him. All around him was a new world, another chance to be more than he was. All he wished from it was the chance to escape the binds that tethered him, to be able to choose his own path as never before he could. As only forswearing the Aldmeri council could. 

The trees whispered around him, the road wound far and he… he did not know what might yet come of this adventure. Only that it called to something primal and deep within. His fate and future rested beyond this place and today would be the first step of many to it. His road would ever shift but for now it was shaded and wooded and just as he needed to heal his old bones. 

The shadows of high places fell over him as he searched needlessly for answers that he could not get and thoughts that would not quell. After a time he lifted his green gaze skyward and felt, not for the first time, miniscule beneath the towering colossus of ruins. He was but a mere bug under the high rising peaks and jagged teeth of mountains. 

His place in this world was so very small in comparison underneath the infinite sky. The day was so bright and clear, stretching outwards into infinity. His being felt as something unworthy of mention among the land of his beloved Jergen. So grand and stalwart was it and he not nearly as. 

Stranded in this new land where the air carried crisp and cutting deep into his lungs; Where the winds whistled through the cracks of stones and mountain paths; Where among the stones of the dead, they walked; Where he was not one of importance. A nobody, but that he was Ralof’s friend and twas enough to be that. 

The amount of relief that gave to him was immeasurable. For the first time in a decades he felt free of duty and service. The burdens of expectations nonexistent in this uncarved future. The present was all so uncertain and unknowable. It was in its own way, beautiful. It was nearly overwhelming in its significance to be free of his title. As free as he could be until his oath was complete anyway.

His tall body swayed under the gates to the north. He felt restless and ready with his magic pulsing warmly under his skin, the feeling making him safe again. His vision was clearer than it had been in weeks and his hearing was sharp and eager as it explored new sounds in the world. Echoes of voices would sometimes come to him over high peaks and he fancied he understood them and the things they described.He imagined they spoke of nature and power and of adventure. He imagined they spoke of living. 

He was eager and would have been gone when the first rays of light colored Aetherius but Ralof insisted he wait a bit longer so as to accompany him as far as possible. He owed his new found friend enough to listen and be patient. It was he that offered him shelter with his family, he who insisted he get a bath and decent food, he who offered to him clothes and leathers other than the rags that were little more coverage than shreds by this point. It was for that reason he had agreed to his new task and carry the news of Helgen to Whiterun for Gerdur.

Something about surviving a dragon together made men closer and erased the boundaries of countries and race. To have given as much as they did, despite their struggles to live in the harsh lands of Skyrim... He owed him patience if nothing else. 

The rest of the town had not been as open to him. They had taken to watching him cautiously. He was elf, outsider, other. To them it was as good as being a dragon itself and so the few who spoke with him he made effort to remember. By the rise of morning he had found himself understanding far more of Nords from speaking to them than the many battles he had been pitted against. It had been war and one did not learn the kindness of enemies then. 

So it was that he found himself waiting and so it was that Ralof found him there mid-morning bouncing nimbly upon his heels and near to bursting from anticipation. A heavy hand landed upon his shoulder, warm and friendly, a comforting weight. It stilled his bouncing as he turned his eyes from the sky to his companion. He took him in, committing his face to memory hoping that they would be only shortly separated. His kind eyes were alight with something foreign and for a moment the strong and sturdy nord just watched him back. A weight curled up in his stomach the longer he was viewed and after a few more moments Ralof looked away. 

They stood in silence not much longer before they began their trek onward. By noontime whatever strange feeling had washed over Ralof had dissipated and he was regaling him on stories old and new, legends and tales, battles hard fought, and much more. Blue eyes were alight with mirth and youth, and he was so young then and beautiful.

Laeriyel couldn’t help the smile that spread over his lips or the flush that tinted his cheeks. Incapable was he of staving off his laughter and questions. Sometimes he would catch Ralof intent upon him as he had been earlier that morning but the man would cough and look away whenever it happened. Those times had been strange to him and he worried he had offended his friend in some way. It would pass quickly though and once again the nord would be more than happy to speak of other things.

By the coming of evening they had made it to the large hills overlooking farms of all kinds. Beyond them laid a bastion of high walls and architecture of ornate wood. Small figures moved up and down the winding road into it, and wagons would come and go. A road splintered off to the east and another west, one went north and another south. An old sign was engraved with the directions to towns and villages. One read Whiterun, another Windhelm.

It was here that they decided to rest although Laeriyel was not tired. Maybe it was that he was postponing their departures from each other as much as possible; Maybe he hoped that he could steal but a bit more time with his new found friend; Maybe he feared the silence that would come without Ralof’s enchanting voice to fill it; Maybe he was loath to be alone again after having met such hospitality and warmth in another.

His eyes flickered to his companion only to catch him yet again with that strange slack look upon his face. The only difference was that this time Ralof didn’t look away. He just stared as if entranced or maybe it was only uncertainty. He took a step closer and their shoulders aligned, pressing close together. Warmth followed where he body touched the others and he turned further into it for the night was chilly. It felt safe, that heat. 

His heart was pounding, the blood rushing through him in waves of soft pulsating warmth. So sweet was it they way that they stood. It would be so easy to just lean in and take this man to his heart. It would be a simple thing to fall into such comforts as what was being offered to him. It would be so easy to love this man should he let himself. 

A hand came up and touched his face, calloused and rough from work. The fingers splayed over his cheeks and gently traced his high cheekbones, his cheeks, the corner of his lips. Reverence in the action as much as curiosity. Heat bloomed where they went and he couldn’t help the shiver that it pulled from him. How long had it been since someone had laid a hand upon him in kindness. It was just so innocent. 

Just as quickly as it started it ended. Ralof pulled his hand back, strands of long soft hair caught in between his fingers. Awe untold in the way his lips parted just so. There were a million words he knew Ralof wished to say, a million questions he wished to ask, and a million stories he wished to hear. None of it came from his lips instead a soft color took his cheeks and Laeriyel wondered if he had been this way to that woman who used to make mead with juniper Berries. He thought it had been. Ralof must have been such an awkward boy. 

“You are… Distinctive you know. Hair such as this and eyes as yours. Take my cloak it will keep you warm, and make sure that you have the hood up so you can at least try to be inconspicuous. This land is unforgiving and I-... I want to see you again. So come to Windhelm and visit sometime. Maybe if Talos is willing I will be there waiting.” Why did it sound like Ralof was saying goodbye? Surely he wouldn’t believe they ended here. 

Maybe he thought that he had crossed some line in touching him? True that they had known less of each other than they should. Truer still that Ralof must have been a keeper of him through fever. He could not stop the warmth that travelled through his skin, over his cheeks and on his neck, just as little as he could stop the small smile pulling at his face. 

“This isn’t the end Ralof. We will meet again my friend be it sooner or later. Thank you… You have been kind to me. I will not forget it. I will go to Windhelm as soon as I can. Let us pray it is soon.” His own fingers lifted to push a lock of coarse blonde hair behind Ralof’s ear. A big grin was his reward and it was just silly how they both were acting. He wasn’t sure who started laughing first but soon enough it was the both of them. 

They didn’t need words to say that they were both being children. That this thing between them wasn’t true love but could be, may have been had they each had more time. Instead their roads were diverging and while he knew that he would see his friend again, he felt that miles and adventures would be well between them then. They would have much to speak of and drink to, and maybe… Just maybe that was for the best. He hoped that their times apart would be well spent and free of disaster. Maybe, the divines would listen to his pleas for once. 

“Take care of yourself and be careful, safe. May your path be clear and your feet swift my friend.” He spoke softly and with an ease of fondness that he had not known himself to have for a long time. It was as if the rugged lands of Skyrim were melting him, changing him already with its power. Instead of stalwart he was becoming lax. 

They stood for long moments in the warmth of the other, no words to say, no more to have. It was as night fell heavy that Ralof slipped away towards the north and he to the hearthfires of Whiterun. Filled was he with a lightness in his heart to guide his way and many stars above to bare him safely. His prayers lifted to Ralof’s name to keep him safe and warm. To hope for him to always have a belly filled with mead and laughter. A good life for a good and kind man. 

The moon shed little enough light as he made his way down the slopes of the road. He could spy the torches of moving guards nearing and drew around himself the woolen cloak he was so gifted. The smell of hearth, honey, and musk assaulted his senses and his heart pounded heavy in his breast. Heat suffused his smile as he hid in it with boyish enthusiasm. 

Whatever nerves he could have felt diminished as if Ralof was just right there with him. Glowing and smiling, warm like lazy afternoon sunlight. It was with assurance that his long legs took him up the steps and through bastions of stone to a great oaken door. A heavy and towering thing made to withstand weather and war. It was here he was halted by the a lone guard. 

It took only a slight prodding to be allowed an audience with the Jarl, and in a sad way it was far too easy. The town beyond the gates was empty in the night, where people may have been now there was nothing. Lights from windows glowed from the warmth within, voices sometimes carried out into the streets but not a soul walked them. Sometimes guards would be posted and it felt as if each one judged his passing with shrewd and harsh eyes. 

Very rarely he would pass a late dweller hurrying onward to a home he knew nothing of. They spared him no glance, no greeting. The town felt both full and hollow. The chillwind of the north lightly touching this place enough to keep the men hard, and the women harder still. He wondered what it looked to the eyes of daylight. He imagined the bustling of many people, the rounds of many guards, and maybe even the scrambling of human children. 

The streets converged before him and he gazed upon a marketplace, a well, and a large tavern echoing of merriment and brawls. He noted it in the hopes that once his business was done that it may prove a good place as any to rest. He turned on his heel and slowly backed into the square taking in the sign shops and strangeness of the buildings. 

So simple they were, so quaint and unlike the edges and elegance of Cyrodil and the Isles. Small and warm, fit for sturdy men and hardy women. Again he couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at him, the newness felt reassuring. He wandered aimlessly and with unhurried steps as he ascended a hill to the edges of stone walls. He was enamored with the strangeness of the stone and the ornately carved sconces that began to become more prevalent. He was at peace until heard a man ask,

“Are you lost?”

The voice rent the air, tearing apart his solitude and the silence that had so wrapped about him. It was a deep thing, gravely, reverberating, and terribly familiar. He spun sharply easing himself defensively backwards. Before him was a towering mass of man, broad and sturdy, wild hair and gleaming eyes of silver. The face was kind and scruff decorated his face as black and young as his hair. 

In his mind he he was thrown back to a white clouded day, the flash of Siealdryn and sister lightning rending the sky, and the blood of his enemy. He saw him all raw fury and savage strength, silver eyes glinting and wild hair thick with the gore of battle. It was almost overwhelming in its abruptness. It was only his tentative grasp on the now that held him and surely as dawn reality came to him soundly. 

This was not the war, this man was not Jergen for he laid to the lost. Many years gone, two decades. The man’s head tilted just slightly and it occurred to Laeriyel that he was awaiting some response but for the life of his he could not recall what had been asked of him. He went to speak but his voice felt rough and no words came. Softly he cleared his throat and could manage but a soft whispered, “What?”

“I asked if you are lost friend?” Tremors seared up his spine, his heart beginning to pound hard against his chest. He had to remind himself again that this was not that man no matter the unholy resemblance. This was a nord far removed from that place. He tried his hardest to lose his defensive posture, to calm himself. Not let his past consume him. In his mind strange words echoed from somewhere deep in him and he felt himself fall into a state of peace. It was slow but it was there. 

“I-” His voice was louder this time, more normal albeit soft and shaken. “I suppose I am. I-.” The man before him stared long and hard into him and he could swear the eyes before him turned darker. He took one step forward and Laeriyel took one step back. Some primal thing in him was urging him to flee, that something was wrong and there was _danger_ here. Another part of himself wanted to push back, some battle hungry thing that needed to test the worth of others. 

“Are you well friend? You are shaking? Not a troublemaker I hope.” Him?! No! He was here for… His spine snapped straight and he startled and looked about trying to ascertain where exactly he had wondered to in his sightseeing. One step toward him and his one back. 

“Because if you came to cause trouble…” Where was he?! One more step toward him and another step back. 

“I didn’t. But you are right I am lost. It is my first time here and I was overcome. Did I wander somewhere I was not meant to be? If so I will leave.” _run_. He took stock of what surrounded him, a yard of dummies laid ahead bathed in silver moonlight. The awning of a porch made from what looked to be a giant vessel, seafaring but now laid forever capsized. 

Beyond was a hill where upon the top a forge fire blazed and as he gazed behind that and he saw the tavern and glowing lights of shops closed but inhabitants eating or doing whatever within. It was beautiful looking down upon it. A good distraction from the sheer need of flight and the conflict with fight. 

“You are telling the truth.” That voice was suddenly much closer, close enough that he shied farther still away but the towering man followed him deep into his personal space as if trying to see him under the cloak. To make them one. 

The face which had been kind but flat had become animated in what was amusement and open curiosity and something else that he couldn’t understand but was oddly reminiscent of excitement. A twisted form of excitement. It would have been endearing had he not been so shaken. Had he not felt that it was not a look that was a good thing to see on this man in particular.

“I am incapable of lies. It is not in my nature.” What sort of champion would he be if he was false. He had always and always would speak ever in truths. It was this way ever since he knew what lying was. Even as a young child he had always been painfully honest. Could not make himself be otherwise. Painful lessons had taught him to hold his tongue but deception by words was impossible for him. 

Something in him just would not allow it. He found himself looking up into the face of this man, his back hitting the stone of the city wall. A wind carried the scent of spice, dirt, and dog. He buried his face further into Ralof’s cloak to ease the scent away. It reminded him too much of past tidings and an oath heavy in his heart. He found that he was distressed by it, needing to move as he fed off of the other’s restless energy. 

“Ah. Well then, Lost. Where are you going. I can help you, if you need it. I am Farkas and that is Jorrvaskr.” The Hall of the Companions and the place his oath was sworn. His eyes roved with insatiable need over the far doors. It was so close now, his promise was so very close. His ears twitched and his breathing sharpened. The smell of spice and dog grew but he could not care. He felt the form of the other lean closer, sniff at him, bury his nose into the cowl and into fine locks of hair. 

His heart thudded heavy, echoing in his chest like a battle drum, and his lips passed a sound of devastation and exaltation all in one. A mewing thing that pulled deep from him. He had dreamt of this. Sound rested on his tongue humming in his throat but his ears heard it not as it escaped him wholly. It was as if he had become something else in that moment far detached from himself. Other. 

“Jorrvaskr, Zu’u lost bool vaat. Diironit.” His scalp tingled and when he came to himself again it was to see Farkas about him, fingers twining curiously into his long shrouded hair. As if in a trance Laeriyel pulled himself to the fore of his mind cautiously moving away from him. Long strands of silver pulled through fingers. Calloused and hardy, capable. The dark eyes from before were black now but the feeling of danger faded. Caution replaced it. 

“What did you just say?” A couple steps more away and this time Farkas didn’t follow him. For a long moment there was naught but silence. The distance was felt keenly between them. 

“That I have come as I said I would. As soon as I finish my business with the jarl and as soon as dawn breaks I shall return and keep my oath. Do you know the way to dragon’s reach my friend?”

It was as Farkas left him at the towering entrance to Dragon’s Reach that he wondered why he had the sense that his life was about to get much more complex.


	3. Fus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whispers of Dragons in rest of the barrow. A friend who is true and bandits.

## Chapter 3: Fus 

He had been right to assume that his life was about to become far more complicated. He found himself again in Riverwood, but this time he was not looking to the expanse of road or sky, but to the jagged teeth of the mountain high above the sleepy town. An old barrow stood as a sentinel overlooking all that stretched before it. Grand arches of hardened stone curved skyward in weathered arms encapsulating the resting place of those long buried, and according to Ralof those slighted and scorned. 

To many it was symbolic of all things rotted and decayed, to him it was a sacred space where souls laid in slumber eternal. The hardened stone was beautiful to him, glistening under the white veil of the clouded heavens. He doubted many would see it that way. Dark and foreboding, or silent and resplendent? He supposed it mattered little if not at all. 

Regardless of how he felt for such places, he was to take from it. He would be little more than a thief and the title felt ill suited on his tongue and his insides twisted with guilt. The unholiness of duty sat oily and foul beside his conscience. One does not take from the dead it was simply not done. No matter the circumstances, or so he had thought. 

Nothing had changed that thought, despite the exigent need for the stone slab called the Dragonstone. No matter what he called it, no matter that he felt disgust of it, he knew well that he would do as asked. He would steal from the dead if that meant keeping the living, the living. Then again he recalled once when he was young and his mother cradled him close, she told him with solemn voice that the living could always wait but the dead… The dead could not. He wondered now, if that was truer than anything else.

It was this thought that brought the beast to his mind. Eyes of hellfire red, spiraling with the cosmos of nothing and the end of all things. Wings aloft on winds adorned with bone spikes and scales, black as the likes of tar and soot. Alduin, _World Eater_. The Dragon King. 

The dead would not wait, he knew. His mother had been right. What that meant of the now he could not ascertain. Ralof told him of walking dead and he had met restless spirits before. He could even recall a time in his younger and more foolish days where he spent an entire year running from the daedric prince Hircine, and other such horrors. This did not feel like that sort of thing, it was more ancient even than The Hunt. It spoke from in him with words that were the bones and teeth of old gods. It made his insides quiver and his stomach sick. 

Such moralities and noble judgments had been alive before Alduin and the strange words pushing him into some fearsome place. Whatever the beast had been, the dead quaked under it. He had to make it right. He had promised he would do what he could to aid against the plight to come, partly because of such ancient whispers. Also, because he could not deny the man who asked it of him with such gravity and purpose. 

He recalled the kindly aging face of Jarl Balgruuf. He saw the crinkling of his mortal eyes, his voice and spirit when he claimed he would not stand idly by when his duty was to protect, warm and smooth words like molten steel. He was a man of action and regal resolution. A true leader of mankind, and so easy to fall into line behind. Balgruuf asked and so he agreed. His respect had not diminished even in the face of his new responsibility, and not even when placed before their so called court wizard did he doubt the intentions of this man. 

The mage however, he could doubt him. Farengar was a pompous sort. He was full of himself in a way that he had recalled in younglings of the Aldmeri guilds, but lacking the discipline. The only difference in his arrogance and theirs, was that he could not recognize his betters and would not hold his wagging tongue. His magic for what it was worth, was the sort wasted on a man such as he. A mind like that was made for a scholar and never a practitioner. The gift was laying to waste in the flesh and bones of the unambitious and lackluster man. He had thought it insulting. 

Despite that, he found himself somehow listening to such a man, and when he listened he tended to get roped into things that he was not responsible for. Things like stealing from ancient tombs, though to be fair it had been the Jarl that cemented his involvement. He was weak to the pleading of those weaker than himself. If he had power, then it was his responsibility to use it to aid those that didn't have it. His teacher of old called it Noblesse Oblige, said it was a foolish thing. It had always gotten him into trouble before and now was no different. 

Bleak Falls Barrow towered over him in grim mockery of his inner turmoil. The only consolation was that he got to return to Riverwood. He was growing fond of the town in the short time he had to prepare and on his second day of the five he had needed, Gerdur had joined him to gather supplies for his mission. She had looked cross at first, but once he explained the situation she agreed to aid him in the ways that she could. They spent a day gathering herbs for potions, making provisions, and he had slipped away midday to the smithy. 

It had been soothing to hold a hammer again. The sound of it striking steel was satisfying, more than he could ever recall it being. Better even than when he made Siealdryn. It must have been the open freedom here, or the air, or the idea that even if he made this thing it would never taste the flesh of a living man. That was enough to make it worth more to him than anything he had yet made. 

He spent the remainder of his day and much of his evening aiding in the shaping of armors, and forging of steel blades. It kept his hands busy and his mind clear, a time to catch up on the emotions that he had to leave behind him. In the end he had asked for nothing of Alvor but his skill and willingness to assist earned him a set of light armor. So he passed the Second Day. 

The third day found him with a bosmer of the name Faendal, of who he found refreshing. It was not often he ran into a skill he had not honed in his long life. So many years of battle mastery had taught him much in the way of crafts and arts, some much more than others. It was with great interest that he joined the mer for the remainder of his time. 

He was a good looking figure for an elf but not the type to gain the attention he desired of women. The mer had exotic skin, dark and smooth. His hair was pale white and much as his own, silvery in sheen. Thin lips were generous with vicious smiles, quick in wit, and quicker still were deft fingers to the draw pull on a bow. 

It was a skill he envied and he openly admitted his lacking of it. To Faendal it was something hilarious, an elf who could shoot a bow. For hours he howled in riotous mirth as his companion failed miserably at hitting the targets both far and near. They spent hours in practice before they decided he would have made for a poor example of a wood elf had he been born one.

They spent a good portion of the day on his shoulder stances. It was an uncomfortable experience and harder still to retain. The sword required a different set of balances and his forward stance for the bow was the opposite of the offensive nature of his usual battle bearings. It was more defensive, made to make the wielder a smaller target. It reminded him of when he was taught to fight with fists in place of blades, but even that couldn’t really compare to the off kilter stance of a bowman. 

By late afternoon his fingers were raw and aching, his muscles burned in a way he hadn't felt since his days as an acolyte under battle master Miranthe. It was all worth it, because his target was filled with arrows, some even well meant. Nothing so skilled as his bosmer friend but enough to be impressive for having never wielded the likes before. 

He was grateful for the time well spent and maybe it was because of this that he agreed to speak to Carlotta on behalf of his new friend. It could also be because he needed further supplies for his assignment. Whatever the case he found himself in the local shop, agreeing to aid them. In a way he was glad for it. Getting justice for the Riverwood Trader would put him at ease, if only for a portion of his coming misdeeds. More comforting was that Faendal agreed to accompany him. It lessened the pressure of his chest that he would not be going it alone, and the bosmer would be a good set of eyes and quick fingers.

The fourth day they spent fletching arrows and righting armor for the journey up the mountain. Laeriyel was hopeless in archery but his forging was a force to be reckoned with. He dealt with the steel and iron from Alvor to hone their blades and made tips for arrows while Faendal took care of the shafts and fletchings. More than once Laeriyel spied Carlotta watching them with rapt fascination and more than once he noticed the dark flush crawling handsomely up his companion's neck.

It must’ve been good to be so young and so in love, he told Faendal, eyes glittering with mirth. He received a hard right hook to his shoulder, but the bite to it was fond enough that he could not find it in himself to mind. The fifth day they rested and rechecked their supplies. Then they left with the dawn of the next morning. They set off with Carlotta seeing them over the bridge, and if his companion spent a bit too long in saying goodbye to her, well he wouldn’t pick at him for it.

Now, the pair stood in the shadow of the Barrow with the sun high overhead and feeling smaller than they could ever recall being before. The snow about them glinted harshly, blinding them in its brilliance. The air froze their skins with biting teeth. Laeriyel felt he was justified in thinking that his life had been about to be far more complicated than he intended because trouble found them long before they even set foot within the hall of dead things.

They had little trouble in the beginning and ascended the mountain swiftly, as mer they were quick and bosmeri were quicker still. It helped that Laeriyel was used to crossing rougher terrains than this and Faendal was used to the taller climbs of Valenwood. The only challenge was the bitter cold that seeped into his bones and made his insides ache. Teeth set on edge, and muscles quivering.

Between the two of them it had become a race of sorts, healthy competition in a way that could actually be moderately fair. They scaled with light feet and the green lands gave way to whiter snow. More than that, the brighter day made them keep their heads down low as they roved higher. A shadow fell over them mid morning and over an outcropping of rocks a lone tower came to view. 

It was a solitary thing of olden stone, as Helgen had been, save this tower was glazed over in sleet from the thin air and chillwind from the north. Not frozen yet but nearly so. He wondered distantly what bastions lied on the tundras of the frozen north and The Sea of Ghosts. He wondered what it would be like to stand before them before shaking the thoughts away. Maybe if the lands had been warm he would have fantasized further, but alas he was not a being built for the frozen tundra. He was a man of the hearth's fire. 

He would have continued on but movement on the tower's high eaves made him halt and crouch low into the chill of stones. He felt his companion settled beside him just as alert, and with them both so slight they fit together seamlessly. For a good few minutes they both observed with keenness that came from superior sight. To any untrained eye the stone outlook would have been abandoned and from so far away the unsuspecting travelers would have continued in ignorance, possibly even into death.

They were not mere men however, they were mer, and more than that one of them was a Bosmer. Their eyesight was far superior and made them excellent in ranged combat. Altimer also shared a keenness of the eyes, but Faendal was leagues over him. Laeriyel had spent a good amount of his youth as a scout, so he knew how to see even if he did not have the sharpness or clarity of his friend.   
It was only the experience from those scouting years that he saw them before Faendal did, but it was his friend's his dark finger that pointed out the rag tag pieces that adorned the nord lookout slipping past the door. 

Lips settled over one of his long ears and the heat of his voice carried the word. Thin lips brushing slow against his cold skin. _Bandits my brother_. The air was hot and his skin prickled at it. He nodded in response and just as soon as that, the heat was gone and with it the chill returned with a vengeance. As one they carefully maneuvered around the path ahead until they came to a better vantage point. 

Two sets of eyes monitored the doorways, taking stock of the numbers and trying to guess the rest. It was far too early in the day to have to exhaust themselves and so they chose to infiltrate as silently as possible. He could have crept close enough and eliminated the watcher at the main doorway but to be safe he left her to Faendal and deft Bosmeri fingers. 

The bosmer strung his bow tight, covered arms steady and pose lithe. It was statuesque and mastered in a way that Laer had little hope of ever emulating. The sound of the bow was lost in the wind and the silent arrow struck true. The shaft stuck half out and the head was lodged deep into the woman’s neck. Blood trickled from the wound that was sealed around the shaft too deep to not be fatal. She listed sideways and then fell, the edge of the bridge taking her weight as the life fled from her. It was painless and simple, a clean death not befitting a criminal. 

He should regret it but it had been far too long since he felt such emotions for those who would not feel it themselves. The sound her body made must have been heard because a second form wandered out of the safety of the tower walls. Already another arrow flew and in seconds he joined her, the death again the likes of ‘quick’ and ‘painless’. They waited another good while and when no others came to see about their dead brethren, the pair moved over their rocky shelter and advanced. 

They crossed the threshold as one, tandem bodies in a synchrony that few could match. This time Laeriyel led the way, the steel singing softly from his hip as he unsheathed the sharpened instrument he had crafted with care. Cool shadows greeted him along with the flickering heat of torches, light glistened from the studs in his lighter armor. The firelight danced a tune of desperation, the cold and wind doing little to help keep their kindling. What heat could have been was very little in reality, though the stone kept at bay the brunt of the cold.

Within the next ten minutes they had cleared the tower, the work was clean and quick. Bandits they may have been but inexperienced in sword work and sloppy all the same. Too young, even in the eyes of man and it struck him as odd. He had to wonder where their minders had gone, for this was nothing but a midway stop. The supplies here were much too generous to be just a good haul, not with how far Riverwood and Whiterun were from here. He shared his thoughts but the spoke no more of it for now. It could wait.

They took lunch in the tower, side by side to share their heat. They joked lightly, and enjoyed each the other in the short span they had to rest before they continued higher still into the jagged peaks. For a good while they were silent, eyes alert and strained into the gleaming white of the mountain. 

“It is strange, I did not know bandits to be so close to Riverwood. They tend to keep to the wilds or at least closer still to the roads of the southeast. They must be desperate or...” That was it exactly, and Laeriyel raised his eyes to take in the pensive nature of his accomplice. 

“After something specific most likely. They were young, too young to know how to turn a blade away properly. The upper levels also held more clothes and goods than for those few. I think these are the bandits that stole into The Trader. Whatever prize awaits them must also be in the Barrow. I wonder if it is what I seek. We have further yet to go but they most likely reached the peak before us. No doubt with Carlotta’s Golden Claw in hand. What a mess.” He ran a hand over his face, his fingers much too cold to have been normal. They were paler than he could ever recall them being, on the verge of turning blue.

“We should tread lightly and strike quickly. Who knows what or how many we are facing.” They sank into silence as they ate their brief meal then moved on. It only got colder the higher they went and it seeped into his insides with ferocity. His fingertips tingled, his ears felt sharp and brittle, and each lash of his fair hair caught the cold in it like a whip cracking on his skin. 

It became enough of a bother that he decided to summon his magic to warm him. Travel cloaks could only stave off so much and he had not thought of weather when they were packing. Gerdur hadn’t thought of it being nord. He would not soon forgo such preparations in the future. His veins pulsed angrily to the mana rising in them, forcing its way through him like many snakes to big to fit. Even a good week out of Helgen he still felt the potency and frequency of the poison they gave him on the way. It still crippled him, as the magic bit his insides and seared in him all it touched. 

Despite the pain he pressed on and let it thrum within. It was better this way, to reopen a wound to heal it properly in a sense. At least now he was warm, and his fingers melted in tune to it, pinpricks in his nerves dispersing to nothing but the languid heat of mana and self. He felt a shoulder touch his own and from then on Faendal became the ever comforting presence at his back. A leech on his magic induced warmth. He found that he didn’t much mind it.

Higher and higher they climbed until Shadows fell long over them. Colossal arms of heavy mountain stone, etched in ice and sleet. Swirls of detail, primitive, carved into the bases and arching walkways that once must have been a formidable defense to invaders. They were but ants in the scheme of its immensity and humbly they came to the steps of the large mountain tomb of Bleak Falls Barrow. 

They did not need words to know what was amiss. They had assumed that they would encounter the remaining bandits here and so they did. These were a different sort and a slight bit more skilled though not enough to matter when it came to the quickness of arrows and the bite of steel. They fell down steps in heavy thuds that echoed on wards and down the mountain. Red stained white, and was enough for both he and his companion to wince at the sacrilege of their passing.

They agreed that they would remove the bodies on the way out. This place deserved its peace without the wandering souls of murderers and thieves. Again he was right to assume that his life was to be more complicated. Their entry to their exit was riddled with peril from bandits, spiders, and skeever beasts, to thieves and the restless dead, fleet of foot and heavy in their strikes. It was unnerving, he thought, as he closed the eyes of a draugr that fell before their final door. The smell of decay and stale air sat heavy on his pauldron shoulders. 

Dirt and blood, viscera and bone meal, all of it collected on him and weaved into the fabric of his being. He wondered if one day he too would lay like this, restless and haunted. Molding in decay and too empty to know friends from foes. Would he be duty bound by oaths he had to keep enough to become like these lost ones? He was lucky that he had company to pull him from the darkness of his thoughts, for they had little time to spare on despair. 

They opened the door as they did much of the day in unity. It had been exciting and exhausting and the idea that their adventure would end soon was both disparaging and uplifting. They worked well together, faced puzzles, and trials at a speed that many would have found astounding. He was glad, that he came in the end. Glad that he had listened to an arrogant mage and remembered the honesty in Balgruuf’s eyes. 

They were so close to their goal and then there would be rest. When they entered the caverns their spirits lifted when they smelled crisp fresh air. Light sifted through the edges of high stone giving substance to the giant walls within and the oddly carved slabs of stone on a raised dias. It was a relief to have finally reached a peaceful place free of dangers. 

It was damp of course, but that bothered them little in lieu of seeing clean water. He could not stop himself from splashing his own face and reveling in the cleanliness that followed. Faendal eagerly explored the cavern. Every once in awhile he would come away from a patch of earth or wall with a plant. Laeriyel knew the basics of the art, enough to make healing tonics or draughts to aid in keeping his energy high for battle, but beyond that he was hopeless in the art of alchemy. 

Then again it could have been for Carlotta. He recalled the alchemy station in the Trader and couldn’t help the fond smile that pulled at his lips. Skyrim was full of the heart warming and it soothed the hurt in him to see love so fresh as this. To meet spirits the likes of Ralof and Faendal who laughed well and easy, truer friends he had not had in a long time and it only took them days a piece to win his affection. Truly a great land. 

All the better to keep it from the maws of dragons. 

It did not take him long to locate the dragonstone or rather where it should have been, as its alter sat imposing on the dias’ high table alongside a many old tools that had become familiar looking. By now he could identify each embalming tool such was their popularity. Beside the table laid a casket, sealed of heavy stone, a guardian. There were two options, the first was that the stone had been stolen and the second… Green eyes flitted over to the final bed of the guardian, it was buried with him. 

“I am so sorry friend, forgive me but I must,” he hoped it would be enough, hoped the watcher would understand and stay sleeping. As he stepped further toward the table and the casket he felt a chill on his back, and a breath on his neck. He turned quickly, unsheathing his blade with the song of steel, to find nothing. Nothing save a wall with scratches along the face. 

He carefully surveyed the area surrounding him but still nothing. As he turned away he felt it again, the chill on his back, breath on his neck. This time however, he heard it. A small thing as if calling from a great distance. Vertigo assaulted his senses and he had to close his eyes tight against the feeling of his mind turning over and over again. Then when he finally steadied himself he opened his eyes to find the wall inches from his person. 

The whispers rose in a violent crescendo. Words old and raw burnt their way deep inside him and he felt himself reach out to them as if he had no control. Somewhere deep in him a voice rose to meet the words and when they touched all time stopped, all his heartbeats slowed for an instant as the clear voices raged within. Like the shouting of old gods. When they left, they left the word and took with them his autonomy. 

He couldn’t hear for the pounding in his skull, could not make out anything but the word in the forefront of his memory. All consuming in its presence. He did not hear the casket open. He felt not the chill from spells of ice, or sensed the maliciousness of the figure approaching upon him. All he knew was the word, all he knew then was the thumping of his heart with the blood of ancients. Wings beating across clouds and into sunlight high over the earth. Shattering mountains into walls, scratching understanding into them. Things of power, Stroma. Home. 

When he came to it was because of the insistent grip shaking his shoulder. Why was it touching him?! Why should it dare? Rip. Tear. Rend. Mortals all of them.

“Laer?! Laer! By the nine are you with me? What happened to you!” The words sounded muffled, as if he were under the water, garbled and flighty. A language he should know and he wondered what this thing was attempting to say.… His head spun, great cobwebs pulling at the edges of his mind. Half his blood on fire and the other half foreign. His heart thudded in great, heavy beats with power the likes of which he knew not. His magic was silenced by the primordial pull that was sinking like a sickness into his center. His gaze focused in vibrancies he never saw before. 

Fuzzy, bright, like a tiny flame. Lips were moving but he couldn’t tell what they were conveying anymore. Clarity fled from him. Slowly though, in long blinking hazes he surfaced from that strange place. His legs threatened to give way and he heaved a gasping breath. His lungs burned, as if he hadn’t tasted air in a long long time. It was as if he had been in a body not meant for him and far too small. 

Faendal was looking at him with panicked eyes and checking him over mercilessly. A Draugr lord was slain with no less than six arrows just paces before him. He felt as if the world was trembling but realized it was himself, his veins felt clear but the magic in them felt wrong somehow. He tried to recall what he had been doing, but all he could remember was stepping up to the table. The table and then… An ache hit his temple. The pain was a reeling mass against the forefront of his skull and pounded behind his eyes. 

Strong arms held him steady through the fit. It passed and with it came a lightness in his bones and an itch at his throat. Pressure in his spine that tingled much too pleasantly given the uncomfortable onslaught of whatever that had been. He shivered against Faendal’s chest, chilled and heated, excited beyond measure. The energy coursing in him overrode his weariness of the day, the need to run or scream, expend the power he had was tantamount.

His eyes lingered briefly at the wall, what had been scratches had changed to a word which every now and again he knew. Force it said. Fus. 

They fled from that place as soon as he could pull himself together. The open air was a blessing, cold and biting but wholesome after so long in the dim, the dank, and the dark. Snow crunched below their boots and wind rushed through their hair. A crescendo carrying in the life of Thedas. They were relieved to be free of it. Still it did not quell the strangeness in his spine, his gut, or his heart. It felt other, and strange but the more time that passed, the more it settled. No. Not settled. Integrated into him. Some bizarre harmony was reached and all was well.

It took a few more hours for him to feel like himself again, enough to inquire of the stone slab which Faendal had taken on their leave. The elf kept shooting him concerned looks and sometimes it felt as if he would ask about it. He wondered what he would say, what he could say about magic that he had no understanding of and yet, knew like a child its mother. 

They reached the town by late evening, when all the world slept in the dead of night. The stars overhead were bright and clear. The whole of Aetherius on display for mortal eyes, clearer than he recalled seeing except among the sands of Elswyre. In him was peace and he wondered what exactly happened this day for he felt changed, irrevocably made into something else. He ended the day in the town inn and felt that fate was still not yet done with him. An instinct told him he was only just beginning his tale and for the first time in so long he looked forward to it. 

The next day he returned the claw to the trader and made sure they knew of Faendal’s bravery. He wished Alvor, Gerdur, Hod, and Faendal fond farewells as he turned again toward Whiterun. Adventure singing in his blood like the call of dragons. The screaming of old gods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter gave me some hardship. I feel as if it is disjointed somehow so I may be reediting it soon.


	4. Mirmulnir

## Chapter: 4 Mirmulnir

The twin moons were high. The silver light blanketed the world before him, glinting off water and nirnroot and mountain paths. Lantern bugs hovered lazily and once in awhile a lumina moth would flutter past, their wings a gossamer that glowed ethereal akin to a phantom of their daytime counterparts. His battlemaster once told him in secret that they were useful for they had the properties that would make a man unseen even when right before the eye. 

Alchemy had only ever been a fleeting talent. His true skill rested in the making and magic of steel, the pounding of battle. That did not mean he had not excelled when it came to the delicate art of the vial. He flourished at the craft for he had deft hands and a sharp understanding that all things had purpose and power. He could recall taking to the pestle and mortar so quickly that the alchemist Vermion once tried to petition the council to gain him as an apprentice.

Sad for him that Miranthe was an enemy not easily abated. 

That had been decades ago to the day but as the beings of night fluttered carelessly, he was reminded of such simple days of youth. His enthusiasm had held little boundary. He took a breath and the air was crisp and clear. The smell of earth, wood, and dew sat pleasantly about him, it caught in his tresses and rested upon his shoulders. Leaves that fell became entangled in the longness of his mane, but he did not find that he minded. The night was too lovely, the world around him too full of intrigue for him to be bothered by such small things. 

He may not have ever been the making of a bosmer, but he loved nature as one of the wood was wont to do. So many years of battle and civilization, of diplomacy and law left him weary of mouths that talked and bit. His heart was at peace in the wild, and freer was it the further he tarried from the beaten paths and cobblestone roads that would have led him swiftly to Dragonsreach and to Whiterun. 

He was tempted to stray ever further as if called to the wildness with an ardor he could only recall vaguely having ever felt. He had not meant to come this way, and hours had been lost as he pressed on far from the roads. He had not intended it but was gladder for it. It was however taxing for he was not eager to tarry far or long from his mission, but discretion had demanded it of him. 

In the end he was glad that he had deviated from the roads best traveled for good reason, it had been only a half of a day since Bleak Falls Barrow and he had spied them on the road then. Black cloaks edged with gold filigree, hoods that hung low with a weighted crest, Thalmor. A piece of him had been elated to see them and on instinct he went to move toward them. Once upon a time they had been brethren, brothers. He longed for familiarity in a land so foreign and the ache of his heart urged him to them. 

His veins pulsed once, twice, thrice, with the lingering scarring of magicka poison. He remembered his place and though his heart hurt for it, he fled from them. His legs steered him high into trees and watched them pass below unawares. When they had disappeared further down the road he continued, albeit solemnly. 

It had been so strange to see those that had once been brethren and yet not be able to approach. They had been so close, a call away, and he could have been reminded of home. He could almost smell the spices of the Summerset Isles. Long days by the sea, the lights from thousands of torch flies, the gentle touch of a friend and sharper smiles yet. Those days were gone though, the Dominion did not take desertion lightly. They had made it clear he was unwanted. Poison, a coward's talent. Whatever fellowship to be had was dead and he would do well to learn that. 

That brought him to wandering, the direction to Whiterun was vague but the journey was well worth it. His path took him off the road and into the towering pines. He surrounded himself in the wood and lost himself in the mossy earth. He reveled in the bramble weeds and pine seeds that bit into unsuspecting feet through cheap shorn leather. He traveled and put to the back of his mind thoughts of elves and bridges burnt.

It was like this that he arrived in the late evening overlooking Whiterun. The plains glowed before him under the two moons. The silhouettes of farms and mills stood as sentries in the night. Not a light glowed from the houses, and all the world slept. The only signs of life to be had was from the creatures that roamed and the insects that cared not of dragons.

Shoulders eased from a tension he had not known himself to have. A journey done and then he could do as he had set out to do. It was closer to the wee hours before dawn that he made it to the wooden doors of Whiterun. Two guards leaned against the stones at either side looking all for the world as bored delinquents and after a brief talk they again let him pass. 

The city was as he recalled, wondrous and homely. The structures were crude in an endearing way, and this time when he came to the market he did not lose his way. His feet took to the steps leading to what a villager had called the ‘cloud district’. It was here that to his right was the hull of the ship Jorrvaskar and to his left manor houses. In the center of the square was a dying tree surrounded by lavender and wooden benches each more ornate than the last. The smell alone soothed his heart.

But the shadows were thick here and something primal in him, something that he recognized from the hall in the Barrow and from the shadow of Helgen told him to be wary. ‘Beast,’ it crooned. The hairs on his arms stood on end, his heart pounding a bit harder as he circumvented the shadows. His footfalls came silent and the crackling of ice bit his fingertips as he turned around the tree. A familiar build, a chest with a carven wolf, and eyes of silver met him. His knotted insides relaxed in spite of the voice at the back of his head that chanted, _‘Beast’_. It crooned, softer until it died.

A breath escaped him and relief stole the magic from his fingertips. 

“Must we always meet like this Farkas, I swear you will scare the years out of me yet.” The man before him did not move, his expression was blank almost strangely so. His hair had changed since last time he had met him, cut shorter and the scruff of his face was trimmed neater. It was almost as if he were staring at another man altogether but surely he could not be mistaken. 

“Are you well my friend, you did not catch cold whilst I was gone did you?” Leariyel took a tentative step forward and that seemed all Farkas needed to snap from whatever strange daze he was in. The lips before him did not smile, they snarled in a twisted parody of the kindness he had met before. The ferocity in it was enough to freeze him, to make his heart start to hammer, so strong was the emotion in it. _‘Danger.’_

When Farkas stepped toward him it was not like before, his body towered darkly. Broad shoulders were tensed as if ready for battle. He stepped back. It should have been a familiar dance but it was far from that. There lacked in that familiar face no curiosity, or playfulness. There was no need within Leariyel to rise to any challenge, but rather to make himself very small. He wanted to run, to flee... to be chased. This was not Farkas, could not be him. 

A set of steps echoed behind them and a voice called, so very familiar at his back. He stiffened, confused, and a part was him screamed that he should do anything other than just stand still but he knew better than to show his back to the imposter before him. He would be attacked surely. 

“Vilkas, Aela was only trying to hel-- Leariyel? What are you doing here? When did you get back?” Leariyel dared not look away from the man before him, he felt that would not be wise. He angled his head instead slightly to the voice at his back. A hand landed heavy on his shoulder and a firm body pressed up against his back. He watched as the nord before him, Vilkas, straightened and blinked. 

For a moment he feared the worst, but when those eyes opened again something had shifted. Gone were the instincts that screamed at him, gone was the need to flee. It was like something had been killed or detained. He swore he knew what it was before the information slipped away from his mind. He was high off adrenaline, in a way he could not remember being in years. It was unsettling to say the least. 

“I see you have met my brother, Vilkas. Do not mind him, Aela says he isn’t good with people. Vilkas this is Leariyel the wanderer I told you about... With the pretty hair.” The silence was almost tense and it was not until he felt a nose burrowing into the hood of his cloak that he broke the stillness. He edged slightly away from the man behind him yet it seemed that the more he moved away the more he was pulled back. The tenseness of the atmosphere was slowly falling away. For a second Leariyel swore that there was amusement kindled in the eyes of the one called Vilkas. 

It was little time at all until he found himself with an arm about the mantle of his shoulders. It held him fast and sure to the Nord’s side. The weight of it bordered on the heavy side likening to a set of heavy pauldrons one worn to battle. It was not a bad weight but foreign enough now with war so far gone. It was not particularly unpleasant but it was not as comfortable nor as welcome as Ralof’s or Faendal’s embraces. Farkas had not fought beside him and though he had been kind, if not unsettlingly personal, they had yet to build the camaraderie in which he displayed now. 

Leariyel could have struggled against it if he wished. If he truly meant it then surely the man would release him however, had Farkas not repeatedly invaded his personal space in odd ways before unabashed? If he forced himself to a distance he was equally as certain as not that he would find himself right back as he started. 

So, he resigned himself to being manhandled into the curl of Farkas’ side. It was not as if it were a great loss. The night was actually fairly chilly, as had been the mountains, the hearthfire of Gerdur’s home had long since faded from his bones replaced by the chillwind of savage lands. Farkas was warm and there was much of him. There was heat to be had and he had gone long enough without to be a tiny bit grateful. The shell of his long tapered ear twitched from the lull of the man’s voice. It was inviting in its gruffness, rumbling like thunder. 

The smell from their first meeting settled heavy in his lungs and soothed his nerves. It seemed stronger, more heady. His nose wrinkled and he nearly coughed when the other twin, Vilkas, stepped up to them. It wasn’t that Farkas smelled stronger it was that he and his brother smelled the same so there was more of the smell. The rampant thought occurred to him that Vilkas would be just as warm as his brother, but the idea was quick to be dismissed. 

Somehow he was certain Vilkas would not readily share himself as his brother did. Vilkas was dangerous. As if the thought manifested, a growl echoed into the square. Silver eyes sharpened to hollow points. Leariyel felt again the niggling at his subconscious telling him to run, but it was fainter than before. He imagined Vilkas as a feral dog, hackles raised and teeth bared. 

“You were right about his hair. I did not realize you had a thing for _elves_ brother.” It should have been a jest but the words were scathing and low. Had he not encountered the skepticism of Riverwood and the nords there who abhorred the Aldmeri, perhaps he would have been insulted. Maybe had he felt he did not deserve the ire of man for all the lives he had taken from them, he would be offended enough to rebuke such a statement. Maybe had he not lived as he had or loved as he had, he might not have such tolerance. 

He could feel Farkas stiffen at the insult or maybe the hostility. The man pursed his generous mouth, brows taunt in an emotion that was hard to place. Hurt? Anger? Confusion? Could it be that the two were feuding? A family matter perhaps? He could not be sure but he knew that he could not be idle while his friend made such a lost expression. That would not do. Farkas was, as far as he had experienced, kind of heart. He did not deserve to be berated. 

“I have heard tales,” He began. “That Nords have a painful bark.” 

Vilkas flinched but he was unsure as to why. His words were not nearly as cutting as they could be. Even so, something dark lifted from the man’s aura. His eyes dilated and his scowl fell. Again the what of it all eluded Leariyel. It was an image just out of reach, an itching at the back of his memory.

“I know it to be true now. _Elf_ I may be, but that is not a thing of which to be ashamed so much as one who would belittle their own kin.” 

There was another flinch. Maybe even an apology ready to be said but the night had held enough for him he could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing in on him. The warmth from his companion and the smell was making him all the more receptive to the tempting arms of Vermina. Whatever feud existed between the brothers, he would rather not be the bone in which they used to fight. 

It was an easy decision to leave. He would go to the bannered mare, eat, bathe, and sleep. Tomorrow he would go to Jarl Balgruuf and complete his task. He hoped by the time that was finished that he may take proper time to know this city, maybe try his hand at earning some gold. As long as it did not involve more awkward situations such as this. 

Nimbly, he escaped Farkas’ hold. He swore that he heard a strange sound emit from the man but it could have just been the wind. 

“Leariyel, wait!” He did not. He backed away from the pair, still wary. When he was a decent distance away he allowed himself to turn away. The market was just ahead, if he could get to the Bannered Mare without any more excitement, he would be grateful.

The next day brought with it another set of trials. It had started out fine. He had woken late with a stiffness in his bones that spoke of the stresses of travel. The bed was nothing of luxury but even still he found himself curling further into it with a deep need to just stay for a long while. The blanket was made of some sort of coarse animal fur that had been treated with flowers to cover the stench of musk and leather. It was cozy and to him, perfect. 

He would have stayed like that for the day had he not looked to the window to see the sun high overhead. He had a mission to complete. There was no doubt that the Jarl would know of his return and was awaiting him. In the end, it was that which pulled him from the warmth of the mattress. He stretched and washed his face in the basin of the sparse room. His clothes were dirtier than he would have preferred but he had nothing else. 

When he had dressed and deemed himself presentable he made his way to Dragonsreach. As he reached for the large door rings something echoed in the wind. A call, far off. The words were too disjointed for him to understand but he could swear it spoke of fire. The guards did not seem to notice and so he put it out of his mind. 

The hall was the same as when he had left a week ago, a large fire burned at the center of the hall. The heat sweltered as it tried to combat the cooler shadows of the manor. The high ceiling was layered so as to release the smoke without leaving openings for rain to fall through. Beams held chandeliers of iron rings, crude, and alighted with sconces of animal horn. It was impressive in the odd way Nordic structures could be. 

He did not waste time and went at once to the room of Farengar. No sooner had he handed over the dragonstone than Irileth rushed in. She looked harried, unusual for her, Her eyes were wide, chest heaving, and her hands, well used to battle and enemies, trembled in trepidation. A sick feeling began to sink into Leariyel’s stomach. This spoke of complicated, and he was right.

There was a dragon attacking the West watchtower. Of course there was a dragon attacking the West watchtower. He took a moment to kneed his temples, to breath deeply, and to accept the fate that he would not be going to Jorrvaskar today. 

Beyond that moment was chaos. Irileth hardly spared him a glance as the dark elf hurried to gather a militia, or group, or gang, or whatever the nords called their hunting parties. Somewhere in him, seeing the men assembled he knew they were too few. Some of the men would die today, he could only hope it was a quick one. He thought of all the nords he had met thus far, how warm and kind they were under their shells. Even those who sneered at first had been kind in their own ways. 

Heat where the thalmor were cold. 

The idea of such warmth gone, it dug into him deeply. His heart hurt for them, and foolishly he allowed it. He went with them readily. Half of him wondered if it was to avoid the twin faces that so haunted him last night, the other half argued because he had to. He had power and thus he should use it to keep these men alive as well as he could. What if one of them was Ralof? It had been enough of a thought as to force his hand. 

As he left with the group something in him told him to look back and as he did he spied them on the high hill over Jorrvaskar. Two men, same height, dark hair. Silver eyes. The wind rustled the grass and their dark tresses and he reminded himself that he had a promise to keep and so he must return. he had to come back alive. In the distance he heard again a voice speaking of fear and fire. He closed his eyes and turned away toward the west. He didn’t want to see that heartbroken expression on Farkas any longer than he needed.

It took the better part of the day to come within sight, and even before they reached the overlook of the Western tower the smell of burnt flesh and smoke told them what they would find. If there had been guards here, they were here no longer. What was left were their shells, burnt too far to be recognized, the tower walls had been decimated and he recalled how Alduin had sat upon Helgen. The weight of him toppling the expert stone masonry. The beast had been playing, but had it been serious he imagined this would accurately describe the carnage he could have been capable of. 

“By the gods...” His name was Cederik. The party had split up to try and identify the husks before them. Something in him told him that he would not live. He was a rash man if the light armor was anything to go by. 

Overhead the beating of wings signalled the arrival of the fell beast. To Laeriyel however, it was his words that heralded his coming. The great wings spread to eclipse the sun as if dove from overhead. The group split into a mockery of itself. Irileth shouted orders to shoot it down but the arrows did nothing to pierce the skin. Instead, they rained down as further hazards. 

_“Fire, breath, inferno. Inferior slaves, I am Mirmulnir! I am of Alduin! You can not master me!”_ A great flume of fire burst to life, the heat seared into him as he tore away from the metal shields on the fallen walls. They turned white under the heat, the wood in them shattering from the intensity. He slipped through the throngs, his gaze unable to tear away from the sun gleaming off sharp scales. 

He heard Cederik scream. the fire engulfed him wholly, red hair blazing and then… silence.

The world trembled and a force in him roared. His blood pumped heavy and sure. Anger pushed him forward as the great beast hovered above smugly. 

_“Come from there beast. Fight me coward!_ ” He shouted up at it, the sword in his hand singing from out of its sheath. Time slowed as the great maw of this beast turned to him and he could swear it was laughing. Slow it descended before him, the earth shook under its massive weight but it was no Alduin. Its scales did not hold the void and its eyes did not hold the end of all things. This was nothing. He would best Mirmulnir, would not lose to this. Not when he had laughed in the face of greater. 

The great mouth opened, _“Fire, breath, inferno. You shall burn cousin.”_ He could feel it, the crackle of air, but something else too. Those words, they latched into place like a mad puzzle and he knew what they were. Magic. A primal magic that was stronger than any from mortal hands. He knew magic too and in preparation his hands swelled with the chill of the north. The great war’s snowy plateau and the high spires of mountains. In his head the magic sung of frozen seas, eternal slumbers. Of his love’s dead gaze. 

Ice came before him, a shield to his sword. The breath of fire beat against him, his veins burning from the strain, the magic rushing through him giddily. His heart squeezed from the intensity, poison ravaged and still weak but adrenaline and need prevailed over it. Be damned the consequences, he would not take a knee here. The heat of the fire scorched his skin, the metal studs of his leather armor glowed white and smoked, the seams of leather fraying as the ice chilled it too fast to burn. The breath ended and he leaped forward. 

This was battle. 

He heard not the calls of the guards, not the flying of arrows, he heard only the beast. Answered only this battle with battle. He dodged a sweeping tail and claws. He avoided snapping teeth and slashed at the scales in a fury not seen since the fields in the great war. Easy orbits of battle carried him as he circled Mirmulnir. His attacks were like the whistling of wind, their clash against the scales the crack of thunder. 

In turn his opponent lashed back. Talons scored the earth, gauges that marked his passing. Flumes of inferno caressed the field burning all in its wake and singing the skin. This creature had the rage but no control. Victory would be with Laeriyel. A creature capable of such death as this, but it had nothing to his body count. Nothing could compare to his conquests. No one could be worth more as a victor than he. 

They circled one another, bursts of ice to fire. His magic was weakening, used to the limits and his arm was an angry red where fire burned the fairness of it. The pulsing veins were screaming and the burns upon his skin were beginning to leak from the heat. Still, he charged forth something in him raging like nothing he had ever known. 

He cut and maimed, fighting with tooth and nail against a beast equally as engaged. Their spirits were singing to each other in a way he had never known. Later, when the tales in the tavern were spun, it would be of his silver hair turning red with the blood of _his_ dragon, of his sword singing, and how he climbed atop the beast and impaled it through the skull, snarling and growling as a beast himself. Speaking the tongue of a dragon, Dovahkiin, and rattling heaven and earth.

There had been just a moment, a split second that the great maw had lowered to breath from the next attack. That moment was all he needed to jump on it, scaling its mighty neck. The sun glinted off crimson soaked steel and for a moment, Laeriyel felt as if the skies were watching him, the clouds a void of souls that spiraled about them in all the colors of Aetherius. Then it was broken and his blade struck true, through the soft plates of bone behind the skull and ever more inward until the hilt could go no further. 

There was a great shaking, the spasming of taloned wings. The throws of death and then the great beast collapsed into the earth and the fire from it died. The world was silent in the absence of him. The thunder of Laeriyel’s heart and soul the only thing coloring the vast expanse of nothing. He breathed, harsh breaths. His limbs fell to his sides heavily, all of him trembling and labored. 

The battle fever that stole his perceptions was lifting, the rest of the world and its noises subtly sinking back into him. A nord man was calling to him from below his mount atop the late Mirmulnir but the words felt garbled and strange. His head tilted to hear him better, trying to focus through a haze that was beating rhythmically from deep inside him to the very edges of his being. 

Something... was wrong, in all his years of fighting never had he felt this sort of floating haze. It was as if the world itself was slowing and he was a detached part of it. Then came a sound that drown out all else, the beating of a thousand wings, the sailing of winds, air buffeting off his scales. His vision faded out into the ripped sky of Aetherius, of beyond.

A well inside was pulling in the rush of icy tendrils that tasted of clear sky. All about him, it was all he could see, that, and the void of all souls above him where the sky had opened into a chasm. A warrior, A mage, A Thief. All the holes of the retreated gleamed in the sky of nirn. Then it all stopped and the pulling of that thing in him ceased. Overfilled. 

His soul roiled and crashed within him, and in it was the voice of Mirmulnir screaming as it fell within him. A force strangled him, pulled him ever further inside and in the last moment before he was devoured he screamed, unable to contain it. 

**“Fus!”**

The air trembled about himself and then the colors and voices receded, the thousand wings ceased and he was himself again. Changed, but himself. He groaned, his balance was off kilter and he slid from the corpse that no longer held his enemy. He barely registered being caught until he was hefted to his feet to meet the excited gazes of Irileth’s men. She looked alarmed, worried even. He felt he understood, whatever had happened wasn’t something that was meant to be. 

Little by little the words of mortal men could be understood, no longer the harsh syllables that made little sense. They were chittering of something called ‘The Dragonborn’. _Dovahkiin._ He heard the tale and shivered. He hoped it were not true but he was never able to lie, not even to himself. In him was a dragon, in him was Mirmulnir. What sort of monster did that make him to be able to eat the souls of dragons. 

Fingers trembled all the way back to whiterun. The rest came in rushed snippets as shock numbed him to all else.

He told the Jarl the bare minimum, or at least he had tried. For up on high, above the throat of the world came the shouts of mortals and one of dragon. A call so clear and so sharp that it shook the walls of Dragonsreach far below. He despaired.

“Dovahkiin!”


End file.
